Little Cat
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: Alex longs to be The Best, and the Duke of Conté has a task for him. But Squire Alan--the friend, the mystery, the rival--is just too hard to kill, no matter how much he wants to. RogerAlex, AlexAlanna, RogerDelia. Complete.
1. Little Cat

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Little Cat

A fate in two parts.

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Rating: R for slash, themes and my personal safety.

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Written for the Difference between Love and Hate challenge, originally posted at the Seanfhocal Circle, 2003.

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Author's note: This was a challenge to me, as a writer. To re-design cannon, to make what has previously only been read between lines into solid actuality, is almost impossible to pull off without irritating a lot of people. This story touches upon themes that that you might consider upsetting or offensive, including homosexuality and coercion. It must be understood that I have not written this to be gratuitous or violent. It is up to you, as the reader, how deeply you read between these lines or look into these images. If you are upset by this work, please, feel free to tell me, but _not _on the grounds that I have misled you about its content. You move on to the front line with a complete knowledge of what you are going to face. I hope you won't take me to seriously, and simply enjoy the writing and the different takes on several interconnecting relationships. 

Slàinte!

K. Ryan, 2003. 

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Introduction

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"What do you want to be, my squire?"

A room in a wall, water-worn stone moving in and out of focus, depending on a candle's whim. Two figures stand there, a man and a youth. Even in the semi-darkness, the distinction is obvious. One so tall; so full of languid grace and charm. The other smaller, slimmer, and oh so eager to please. 

"To be the best." These are the youth's words, harsh with emotion. 

The man laughs. He moves, to--but what he does is half-lost in the gloom. 

The youth feels it, though. He shudders, long dark eyelashes coming to rest on his cheeks as his eyes close. A tear falls, to sparkle with the refracted light of the candle flame. "My Lord…"

"You want to be the best, little-cat. You want, to be, the best."

The words are left hanging in the air. Soft, and beautifully spoken. 

The youth can only shudder, again.

"A worthy ambition, and yet, what are you, now?"

"...Inferior, my Lord."

"Yes, you are, little cat. Everyone knows that. But, inferior to whom?"

"You, my Lord!"

The man smiles. 

"Of course. But…there is another."

"I know…"

"You know, do you?"

"Yes!" The youth's voice is full of tears, though no more join the first one.

"Say the name, Alex."

"I…"

"Say. The. Name."

"Alan, my Lord.

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Intermission

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Time passed, and it passes still. Swords flicker, sometimes for show, sometimes for blood. The youth becomes a man, at least to everyone's eyes but his own. The squire turned to knight, but he is still 'little-cat'. A little cat who wakes up from ordeal-dreams of orange fire, and a human whirlwind of unfolding kicks, blocks and punches--a human, a girl, with wonderful purple eyes…

Alan in girl-form. An Alanette. A soft Alan--an Alan with breasts.

Alex groans, putting his fists to his eyes, trying to shut out the images. Alan is no Alanette. He is a threat, and he isn't allowed to exist any more. Roger's plan is like an equation, and Alan has to be cancelled out for it to function. It would please him, if Alex would be the one to do it, he had said. And Alex exists to please, despite the fantasies that plague his mind. 

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Insinuation 

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"He's going to drop you, you know. Help me with these buttons"

The lady Delia of Eldorne is an odd one, the servants say. So beautiful, and so highly-strung. She sent all offered maids away, her lovely face contemptuous as she said that she was used to far better from home. Imagine what they'd call her if they knew she had her very own little house-cat, instead of any maid. A _male _house-cat.

"I can't imagine what you mean, Delia." Alex's face, reflected in the dressing-room mirror, reveals nothing. His hands are quick, as he fastens tiny mother-of-pearl disks at her back. This house-cat has had lots of practice with fine clothing. 

"Oh, come now, cousin. You _know _what I mean." Delia's tone is affectionate, but anyone with ears can hear the viciousness beneath it. She turns her head, so she can whisper in his ear, her long dark curls, still unpinned, falling over both of them. "A man like that needs a _real _woman."

Alex's hands falter, almost tearing one of the top-most buttons away. 

"Poor darling. The women here really _must _be as awful as they look, for Roger to resort to--"

"--Shut _up_." 

"Now, now, now. That's no way to treat family. If you upset me, I could always scream. _Imagine _what court would have to say about _that_, Sir Alexander!"

"Imagine what _Roger _would have to say about that, _Lady _Delia."

The woman pouts. "You're no fun. Insecure men never are." She reaches up and takes Alex's hands as he starts to pull them away from her neck, the last button done. Slowly, she pushes back against him, hips swaying, her hands moving his to where the beautiful, rich fabric of her gown covers her breasts. Her eyes glitter at him, in the mirror. "You miss out on a lot, Alex," she whispers. "_Such _a lot. You really ought to find a woman, instead of trying to be one. Roger is man enough to tell the difference. Are _you_?"

Alex pulls away, looking disgusted. "Do you have _any _shame?"

"Only when My Lord wants me to, darling." Slowly, she runs her hands over her body, smoothing out her dress. 

Little-cat has had enough. "Once you've dealt with the Prince, he'll tire of you. That's all he brought you here for, _cousin_. You're the perfect slut."

Delia doesn't react, save for flushing. "And you're not?"

Muttering something dreadful, Alex turns to the back door, with Delia's lovely voice ringing in his ears. 

"Once you've finished with this Alan character, what point do you have? Face it, little-cat--that _is _what he calls you, isn't it?--when it comes to these games, I am by _far _the superior player."

All that night, Alex watches men he had once considered intelligent fawn over the woman. 

Every man, save Alan. 

Little-cat wishes this knowledge wouldn't please him so much. 

All that night, he watches Alan, and imagines that his pale, set face is covered in blood. 

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Indecision 

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Alan watches Delia. Alex watches Alan. Night after night, ball after ball. 

Alex watches his friend chafing under his knight-master's obsessive adoration of the new court-beauty, and wonders at it. 

He rejoices at it. It gives them a common dislike, something to talk about. It builds trust. _I'm going this for My Lord_, he tells himself. _I'm doing this for Roger._

"Someone's looking gloomy today, Alan." The cheerful, sympathetic voice and warm smile: it's all very, very easy, even with black arguments playing themselves out in his head. "No one's dying, there's no court extravaganza for a bored squire to serve at tonight, and the weather's bearable. What more could one ask for?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really." Squire Alan appears to be trying for nonchalance, very badly. "Just…if anyone _ever _asks me how such an 'untried whelp' could defeat a big, strong Tusainian idiot with a sword again, I'll--"

Alex slips a friendly arm around his shoulders, almost shivering at the contact. _It's for Roger_…

"Get used to it now, I say. That's the problem with being 'The Best'."

"Oh, so you think I'm 'The Best' now, then?" Alan is grinning at him, half cocky, half amused. 

__

Yes, damnit! "Oh, no," somehow, Alex manages a smirk. "You've still got some growing up to do before you can claim _that _title, squire."

Alan rolls his eyes. "_Someone's _getting old and sure of himself."

"Touché."

"Since when do you throw fencing terms into normal conversation?"

Something very strange is happening to Alex. He's restless, loving the March wind and its contrast against the energy that's fizzing under his cheekbones. He's here, with Alan, and everything is falling into place. Everything has the potential to be perfect. _This is it_, he thinks. _This is _it.

"You know, he says slowly, trying to draw the moment out for as long as possible. "There _is _a way we can resolve this debate once and for all."

Alan is two and a-half steps ahead of him. "The practice courts?"

"If you're willing." Alex stands, stretching.

"Of course. Referee?"

"Do we _need _one?"

"N-o…"Alan is suddenly thoughtful. "No, we don't need one. We're friends. I'd be worried if I didn't trust you by now."

__

We're friends…. 

Something twists in Alex's heart.

"C'mon, then, Alan. To the practice courts!" 

Whatever that twist was, whatever it means, Alex chooses to think of it as just another kink in a black, internal mess. It's safer, that way. 

Alex slowly follows Alan, half-smiling as he hears the lad whistling cheerfully. 

The doors of the indoor practice courts are old--and creak in protest as they close behind the two.

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Interest

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Alan has always been the excitable sort. Quick to anger, quick to comment and even quicker to action. He's certainly excited, now, his face flushed, and brushing strands of copper hair off his face with a small, impatient hand. Alex, watching the muscles of Alan's small, stocky body moving under his skin as he stretches, has to put an alarming amount of energy into fighting a blush. Frustrated, he pulls a practice sword from a bracket on the wall. Its heaviness calms him. It feels so sure in his hands, and reminds him of his purpose. Of what he, and only he, has to do. 

__

He is going to die. 

Alex joins the boy in the center, to raise his sword in mock salute. 

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Intimacy 

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Attack! 

Swerve-strike-block-shift-forward-back-dance-guard-forward-up-down-opening!-thrust-side-slip-in. 

"Hey, Alex! Be careful!"

Alan is wearing mid-green breeches. Alex can't help noticing--as the fabric tears away and before blood wells up in the scratch made by his sword--that the skin of his leg is very white. 

Alex isn't careful, today. He is living a fantasy. 

Alan is good. His technique is perfect as he lunges forward, something close to fear in his eyes, but Alex knows he's better. Alan is too small, too young to resist as the knight meets him, sword-hilt to sword-hilt. 

They're body to body. Compared with the boy he is trying to force to his knees, the little cat isn't so small any more. This is almost too easy. As he presses down, throwing all his weight into the effort, images of the Alanette, crying and bleeding, flash across his mind…

__

Gods…this is wonderful…

Smack! 

Alan breaks away, only to duck in again and bring his sword up, and up, so that the flat of it meets with Alex's cheekbone. Pain explodes, red hot and localized, where it lands. Cut-sharp and break-deep. 

Alan proves he _can _resist, after all. 

He also looks mortified. 

"Alex, I'm sorry…"

The pain is electric. It's constant and solid, almost taking on a completely new identity of its own. Such a lot of force, for such a little figure…

"Do you--?"

…All the more fun to break. Alex can see what His Lord enjoys about these games, now. 

"Guard."

Is that _fear _in Alan's eyes? 

It certainly becomes it, as the boy is knocked to the floor. 

Wood chips fly, as little cat's sword smashes against the boards. 

__

Nearly there…

Back-forward-strike-hit! 

A sword makes a very satisfying noise when it connects with the human ribcage. 

"I want to stop!" Alan's voice is unnaturally small. Almost like a girl's. "Something's wrong!"

No, nothing's wrong. Sparks fly as blades meet.

Strike!

Alan is quick enough to protect his head, but something still cracks, as the sword lands. 

It is a very final crack. 

Alex watches all the colour drain from Alan's face. It's whiter than his tunic, whiter than powder, and, when his sword lands again, it will become whiter still…

"Very interesting, Alex." 

The sword drops for the last time that day, echoing as it hits the floor. 

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Irresistible

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Sir Myles sends the little cat out on boarder duty. It was expected, and is laughable, Alex knows, considering his actual intent.

What has he done? Alex can't believe that everything had really happened. That he'd nearly killed Alan. Little, now-fragile Alan. He had been in command. 

Alex knows, now, that he can be the best. That, had he been given a few more precious moments, Alan would be a pathetic, twisted wreck on the floor, with a little cat looming over him. 

The image is too horrible, too beautiful, to bear, and Alex has a terrible suspicion, deep within him, that he'll never be in that wonderful position again. 

__

"Don't touch me!" 

Alan's words echo in his mind. High, and full of pain. 

Little-cat is a monster. He made Alan's voice that way. He made him recoil. 

When Roger finds out, he will be angry. Alex knows this, but, for once, almost doesn't care. He needs to be away from Roger, at least for one night. Let the man vent his anger on Delia. She'll have to get used to it, if she wants to be used by him. Alex knows he'll be hurt by it in the end, but he's full of remorse. 

Little-cat remembers every detail of the match, and he wants to cry. He wants to do it all again, or make it so it had never happened at all. 

He is standing outside Alan's door, and he doesn't know why. He has to _do _something. Something has to be resolved, whatever the cost. 

Alan flinches as the door opens, and Alex comes in. He's been caught unprepared, sprawled on the bed after a Healing, ice on his wounds. He lashes out as the man comes near, but all blows are pushed aside, all too easily. "Get _out _of here!" 

Alan's voice is like the rest of him: small, weak and vulnerable. Almost… womanish. A live Alanette, sans the breasts. 

It's that voice, coupled with that image, which breaks little cat. "I am _truly_ sorry."

Pushing away all resistance, marvelling at the hard-soft quality of the figure beneath him, Alex kisses Alan. 

As soon as it happens, both are too stunned to do anything about it, except let it be. 

* * *

To be continued

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Disclaimer: No character or location belongs to me. Everything, save the actual plot, belongs to Tamora Pierce. The writing challenge was concocted by Reaya, Salinalia of Sunverfye, and HuntressDiana, 2003. 


	2. Broken Bird

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Little Cat

A fate in two parts.

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Rating: R for slash, themes and my personal safety.

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Written for the Difference between Love and Hate challenge, originally posted at the Seanfhocal Circle, 2003.

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Author's note: Everything in the previous Author's Note applies to this chapter, perhaps even more so. 

Special thanks to **Caitlin Sullivan**, who gave me the best review and the biggest rush of confidence I have ever received. I know how painful it must have been, preparing to read something which goes against so many things you believe. Hugs also to **Random1, little miss crazy, Wintersjuly **(go read her fics!), **Nahrii, Little Tiger, Seereth, Jen, and AlmightlyChrissy. **To have so many talented people read my work has been an honour. 

Slàinte!

K. Ryan, 2003. 

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Imagery

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"A-Alex?"

Two people, alone in a room again. They are hidden away from prying eyes, and the walls that surround them are ancient stone. Once more, one of them has the upper hand. 

But there are differences, too. There is no candlelight. The room smells of armour polish and sharp, yarrow-infused heal-all, and positions are less distinguishable. The youth lying on the bed is obviously in the weaker position, and yet the slim, dark man--leaning with his face almost offensively close the other's--seems afraid. 

"What?" Little Cat's voice is sharp; his breath doing everything it can to catch in his throat. 

"Why?" No accusations, no flinching away. Just wide-eyed, childish confusion coloured with old pain and new fear. 

"Don't ask me."

"But--"

"--Just… don't, Alan. There's nothing to say."

"Oh."

Little Cat swallows. He feels the boy's breath on his face: warm, smelling slightly of willow-bark and blood, where he seems to have bitten his tongue. Everything is surreal, the sort of time which, when it fades to memory, is tinted some indefinable colour, and much slower than life. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Alan's words rise up at the end, high and nervous. 

The little cat closes his eyes. He's losing control. Control is life. 

When he opens them, little-cat leans down again, trapping Alan's broken body gently, like a bird's. 

The kiss is slower, this time, and Alan, despite the pain, is more prepared.

He stiffens, but, once again, finds himself unable, or unwilling, to push away. 

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Illicit

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The bird's wings heal, and Alan is up and about again: laughing with Gary, faithfully serving Jon and Sir Myles, bursting with nerves over the coming Tusaine war. No one notices the tension that fills him when Little-cat, dark and quiet as always, enters a room. 

Alex notices. 

He's twitching with every in-drawn breath the boy makes. Trying not to flinch, as large, purple eyes become wide and confused as they look at him. When this stare is mirrored by Alan's familiar, that animal which disturbs His Lord so very much, Alex feels that it is only a matter of time before someone notices something. Before questions are asked, and answers reveal. 

But the little cat needn't worry. Alan is a _very _good actor. 

Alex is seeing a lot of conflict, these days. His sword has drawn every type of blood imaginable. He is commended, and flattered: hailed as a hero. He also spends a lot of his time trying not to laugh. It's all so ironic. So stupid. So utterly _hilarious_. And the funniest thing is?

Roger, the clever, the remarkable, the wily and devastating, hasn't found out his secret. 

Little-cat has had the cream, and a part of him doesn't care who knows it. He is doing the impossible, and, for once, doesn't try and force Alan's face out of his dreams. What he doesn't notice, though, is that there is no longer any blood to be seen. 

Lives are changing, reader. No one knows where they will lead. 

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Ill-thought

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Another day, another corridor. Squire Alan has been fighting, today, his hair slicked back with sweat. No squire has been able to beat him, and no knight that tried. Alan smiles as the memory of Raoul's voice plays in his ears: _"That's it! That's the last time I ever try and win against you. It's too embarrassing for a big man like me to bear."_

__

"Aww…but it's so _much fun to watch," _Gary had said. Alan couldn't help grinning as Raoul had blushed scarlet, and he grins at it, now. It is wonderful to be good at something, and a small, over-confident voice in the back of his mind keeps on telling Alan, cheerfully, that he's the best swordsman in the palace, save Duke Gareth and Alex. 

Alex. 

Alan doesn't know what to think, about him. One minute he's trying to kill, and the next he's… he's….

The memory of those kisses burns Alan. _I just don't _need _another complication, right now. _

Alex watches him, as he always does. It's become a habit, and a dark sort of pleasure. He's very good at it. The best. 

Today, he decides to reward himself, stepping out into full view, so he can watch him blush. 

The corridor is quiet, and Alex is unexpected.

And in no way disappointed. 

As Alan turns his head away, eyes lowered and face aflame, he doesn't notice the emerald-eyed figure that was also in the shadows, made silent by the thought of a certain, shameless, revenge.

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Illumination

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"My Lord?"

"Delia?"

"I know it is late, my Lord, but you have _always _said to report to you whenever there have been…occurrences, and I have always been _entirely _devoted to--"

"--Of course you are. If you weren't, you would have regretted it long before now."

Roger is standing over the woman, who is busy looking beautiful and tousled at his feet. He admires her technique, though he despises her person. Ambition and cunning that was once singular and quaint is merely tiresome, now. The woman has no sense of her position. So, the Duke of Conté's beautiful voice is irritated, though, admittedly, only slightly. Few men would really complain about a woman as beautiful as the lady Delia's willing presence in their bedroom, late at night. _At least she has sense of her talents_, he thinks. 

"Unlike _him_, you mean?"

Silence.

"What, or more correctly, _whom_, do you refer to?" His voice cools, his eyes focus, taking in the lady, with her excited, almost gleeful look. 

Delia turns widened eyes upwards, taking in her master. "You didn't _know_, my Lord?"

"You do no favours, Delia. You think too much of yourself."

The woman's head touches the intricate Carthaki rug on the floor, as she flattens herself. "I think _nothing_, Roger. You know that. I never meant to give the impression--"

"--Enough of that." Roger prods her, none-too-gently, with his foot, forcing her to rise.

"I just meant to say, my Lord, that things with the Prince are going _most _satisfactorily. I have him right _here_." With a smile she curls her fingers up to her palm, eyes glinting. "But, I regret that my cousin isn't having as much success as I. At least…not in the regard you want him to."

"Your cousin has the harder task, as you know."

"Of course, my love. Of course. But you didn't order him to _kiss _and kill, at least to my limited knowledge."

Delia's words hang in the air. 

Nothing more is said, until Roger pulls the woman to her feet, eyes unreadable as he tilts her chin back with long fingers, exposing her neck. Delia doesn't even struggle--she is used to his games. But she can't help but whimper, as the orange fire of his gift spreads around his hands. It doesn't take long for the pain to start, or for Roger's mouth to smile again. "Why?" she whispers, before her voice breaks, like the rest of her.

"Dear one, I didn't like the message you gave me." 

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Irretrievable

* * *

Roger's chamber holds many secrets. Books, and a fountain. Scraps of fabric, and rich tapestries--hiding rooms-within-rooms. Carefully placed and beautifully made, everything in this room as a role. The Duke has no time for redundancies.

"You've disappointed me, little cat."

"Master."

"Aah, Alex." Roger's voice is warm, and almost sad. Leaning down, he touches Alex's cheek. 'Master' is just a word to you, it seems."

"I--My Lord. I don't know what you mean…"

"You think you've outgrown me. Your confidence has been growing too big for your body. It isn't becoming--" 

"--Never!" 

"--_Don't _interrupt, little cat. You should know better." 

Little-cat lowers his eyes, and backs up until his knees hit the bed.

"You think you're your own master now, don't you? You've been thinking that you're in control." Roger gives him a push, sending him sprawling on the bed, helpless. "It's rather endearing, but only up to a point. You've been very stupid, my former squire. I'm afraid you're going to have to pay for that. I am _very_ upset with you."

"My Lord, I don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do, Alex. Please, remind me. What, exactly, _are _you?"

"Inferior, my Lord."

"_Now _you're getting the answers right. Inferior to whom?"

"You, my Lord."

Roger grins, looking cheerful and honest and beautiful. "Of course you are, little-cat. But…there is another, is there not?"

Alex flushes. "I…my Lord…"

"Go on, say the name. You know your part."

"Roger…my Lord, I, that is, I no longer consider…I can't…"

"You no longer consider a lot of things, little-cat, including your position. _Look _at yourself!"

"I can't, not when you when you have me here, my Lord."

Roger takes something out of a pouch at his waist, pushes at it, hard. 

Alex doesn't scream. Not yet, not then, put he can't stop himself from biting his lip until it bleeds, and putting a hand up to the sudden, dark, bruise on his cheek. 

"You see what this is, little-cat?" Roger holds a doll in his hand, crafted with wax, and coloured beautifully. Dressed in miniature black breeches and shirt, with a tiny silver sword at its waist, its dark eyes lowered, it is Alex's mirror image, with a dent in its cheek. "This, is you, and I can do what I want with it." Eyes laughing, the duke plucks out some of the black hairs on the doll's head, making Alex wince. "You have no control." 

A needle, arriving in Roger's hand seemingly from nowhere, scrapes down the doll's leg, sticking every so often, having to be dragged out, with little fragments of wax falling to the floor around them. "You allowed yourself to be bewitched by a _boy_."

As the needle reaches the doll's foot, Roger starts to push the point in. Little-cat, already white, has to scream then. But quietly, because he is biting his own hand.

"And, from now on, you answer only to _me_."

* * *

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Insert

* * *

War is declared. Commands are issued. Plans are made. 

A bruised, shaking hand places a burr under the saddle of a gentle horse, and then follows its owner back to his rooms. 

Little-cat is sticking close to his master, now. 

* * *

****

Inevitable

* * *

The Rogue watches Alanna as she walks into the lesser library, letting some of her mask fall. 

"Are you out of your mind? Some of My Lord Provost's men _do _know what you look like."

He smiles, loving her nerves. "Upset for my safety?" He watches, chuckling, as Alanna scowls. "I'm touched." 

"You're touched in the head." 

__

No arguments there_, lass. _

"Anyway, since you're here, why _are_ you here?"

__

To kiss you, of course, woman. You do the oblivious trick too well. That's meant to be my _job. _"I thought you mightn't get the chance to go down to the city before you rode out, and I wanted a word with you. But _you _were wanting to ask _me _something." 

George looks at the burr Alanna's holding in her hand, and then at her face. "Stefan found this in Duke Gareth's saddle blanket."

__

Interesting, that. "And you suspect foul play?"

"Of course, but it doesn't make sense." 

__

Oh, I think it does. 

George listens, with growing dread, to Alanna's words. Her talk of war and warrior ethics. _You've _no _idea what you're up against_. "Think like a plotter. There might be reasons closer to home as to why Duke Gareth fell from his beast."

"Closer to home?" 

__

Oh, Alanna_…_"Who benefits? And stop thinkin' of fightin': _start _thinkin' of power. Who gains the most power from His Grace's 'accident'?"

It is painful, watching the realisation dawn. "Not a commander you'd be trustin' in the field." 

"I'll have to think about this."

"Think on it all you may please."

There is so much to talk about, in so little time. So much to drill into Alanna's head about the real world, instead of the land of heroes. George wonders how she would think of life, after war. Will she still be in it? He can't bear to think otherwise, but he knows he has to. Perhaps that's why the conversation turns to love. There is something inevitable about it, despite the complete lack of romance in Alanna's expression. She closes up, hardens and becomes 'Squire Alan' before his eyes. 

"Good luck," she says. "I don't think a woman like that exists."

George takes her shoulders, smiling. "I've already found her, and you know it well."

She glares up into his face. "You think highly of yourself! I'm the daughter of a noble--"

__

Trickster laugh with me, she's clutching at straws. "Does that really stand between us, Alanna? If you loved, would you care about birth or wealth?"

"Like must wed like," Alanna whispers, with George trying not to wince. _A more painful sentiment I've never heard. _

"There are more important things than wealth. What good will a well-born husband be when you take up your shield?" 

Again, he listens to her, this time on the topic of husbands, or the lack of them. "I--I won't let it ruin her friendship, George," she manages, at last. 

__

Poor lass…"And I won't speak of it again until you ask it. Look at me, Alanna." 

She looks at him, and he kisses her. He knows he shouldn't, but it's impossible to resist, and, now it's started…_gods_, it's wonderful. Heat, strength, feeling--it's all there, in abundance. 

__

Almost like she's been practicing. 

The traitor thought comes into his mind, as he forces himself to pull away.

And long after she takes up her disguise again, and marches off to battle, George Cooper wonders which one of her companions she might have been practicing _with_, the Prince landing the most favourable odds. He doesn't even consider the dark, little cat, which walks so close to Roger's side. 

* * *

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Immune

* * *

Time passed again, as it always does. Little-cat is sunning himself, now, his bruises gone but not forgotten as he sits in the courtyard. Many things have changed, since the war, but faces still haunt his dreams. Little-cat tries to block them, these days, or drown them out. But purple eyes are hard to obscure. 

Alex is worthless, and he hates himself for it. He hates Alan for it. He hates everyone and everything. At least he has the comfort of knowing that Roger will change the world, and even let him live in it. But only if he's very, very good.

Footsteps jerk him out of his dreams. Alex turns around, and sees Alan, looking tired and hard, sad, battle-scarred and entirely undesirable. Memories of the boy, clouded by the thought of that tiny way creation, and a needle, make him shudder. The start of so many problems, in one little person."

"Alan, come here a minute, will you? I thought you were with Jon."

For some reason, that makes Alan blush. Idly, Little-cat wonders exactly what happened to Alan during the Drell war, besides being kidnapped. But mostly he just notices how close the blood is to his face. "Alex, I…"

"Just listen to me a moment, would you?" Slowly, he stands, and walks over him, eyes cold, mind cooler. It's time to cancel out some factors. "I just need to tell you, Alan, that…" he makes himself look away with mock embarrassment, "that whatever happened, you know, _before_, it just _stays _before, all right?" 

He never expects Alan to hit him. Almost yelling with shock, he careers into the stone beck he had been sitting on, years of training the only thing stopping him from breaking several bones. "What was _that_ for?" 

"For being flaming stupid, that's what!" Alan's voice breaks, his eyes narrowed. "Do you think I'm _proud _of _before_? I don't know _what _happened there, but, to think that _you'd _think _I'd_ want…." He swallows something down. From the expression on his face, it looks like bile. Alan turns on his heel, then, and walks away. 

The thing is, Alex is _sure _he can hear Alan mutter something like: "Why does everyone want to _kiss _me?" 

And so it ends, with anger and hurt pride. The only way it ever could, the little cat and Squire Alan being who they are. 

* * *

To be suppressed, and forgotten… 

* * *

****

Disclaimer: No character or location belongs to me. Everything, save the actual plot, belongs to Tamora Pierce. The writing challenge was concocted by Reaya, Salinalia of Sunverfye, and HuntressDiana, 2003. 


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